There's a white cockatoo flying the fields,
Searching for ripening wheat.
The mist of the valley has blown from the plains,
Writhing with shimmering heat.

The dry stone walls of grandfather's youth,
Snake around contours of trees.
A red combine harvester sulks in the shed,
Impatient to flail at the wheat.

A clattering windmill; long trough of water,
Murmuring cattle and sheep.
Crows in the orchard; clamour and squabble,
Wagtails; finches compete.

Darting to catch singing Cicadas,
ants that swarm on the breeze.
Herbs in profusion scent the small garden.
Chooks scratch quietly at peace.

Shaded by trees; a sleepy veranda,
The family gives thanks for the meal.
The old man smiles proudly; at three generations,
Sons of sons; daughters husbands and kids.

Gathered to honour the old man and wife,
Thankful for plentiful years.
A bountiful harvest; food for the nation,
Promise of future assured.

Cows for the dairy; a fresh team of horses,
Flour salt sugar spices and tea.
All will depend on fair fickle weather,
When its time to gather the wheat.

Man does the planting; God gives the increase,
Pray for a harvest complete.
So flow the seasons; at rest from their labour,
Thankfully partake of this feast.

Ignatius Writealot             Home